In Coldest Winter
by Sonnenkoenigen
Summary: Miranda and Noise Marie snowed in in Germany on Christmas Eve.


Don't own DGM of course.

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**In Coldest Winter**

He heard her footsteps first, over the brush of falling snow and the song on Noel Organon's strings, but he also heard her humming, so he didn't rise as she came closer. Instead, he kept playing, smiling at her comfort with the tune. What differences there were in dialect were more than made up for by the delight of communicating in the language he thought and dreamed in. Miranda got his puns, understood his off-hand references to stories, and knew the words to the carols he played.

As she got closer, she realized what she was doing and stopped, her heart fluttering with nerves.

"Miranda?" he asked, although he knew it was her by her heartbeat. Everyone's heart was like their face, unique once it became familiar, and he had listened for hers so often that it might as well have been his own.

"I…I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No," he said, "I was just practicing. What do you need?"

"Nothing," she said. "It's just the train, it's not running tonight because of the snow. We won't be able to leave until the twenty-sixth. At the earliest. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," he said, "and I don't mind a little time to relax. A few extra days in the Schwarzwald make this a real holiday." It was the closest he had come since he joined the Order to going home for Christmas.

"I suppose," she said. "I just don't know if it's right to take a break. It means that the others have to work harder.

"There's no help for it," Marie said, thinking that it wasn't just when her Innocence was invoked that Miranda tried to take on others' burdens. "These delays don't happen often, so one learns to take advantage of them. Nobody will hold it against you if you enjoy it."

"Then I guess I will. Shall I leave you to practice?" she asked. "I just thought I should tell you, about the train, I mean. I can go now."

"Would you mind singing with me?" he asked. He knew that her idea of courtesy was to spare others her presence.

"Oh, I couldn't!" she said, and he heard her heart stammer as she blushed. "I have such a terrible voice, and you have such good hearing. It would be awful."

"The song is so well suited to a female voice, better than to mine. I would like to hear it as my mother sang it." Somewhere, off in the distant past, was a memory of a piano, with his mother and sisters gathered around it.

"Oh, I'm sure she sang much better than I do."

She did. Marie's mother had been an opera singer before she married, but it wasn't purity of tone he was after. "Please," he said. "As a favor to me."

"All right. If you're really sure."

"I am."

He heard her sit down on the bench beside him and cough a little, clearing her throat. He strummed a small arpeggio on the strings of Noel Organon, a harp made from earth and Innocence, then she began.

"_Es ist ein Ros entsprungen_

_Aus einer Wurzel zart…"_

At first, she sang too soft and a little sharp, but she was nervous. As the controlled breath of singing and the gentleness of the song began to catch hold of her, her pitch steadied and her voice rose and fell with the melody, not the clear tone of his mother's, but feathery-light as the snowflakes that melted on his face and hands. He came in on the second verse, adding a low, simple harmony, and she faltered briefly before she found her notes again and let him carry her through to the end. They finished on a perfect, glorious fifth that echoed on his Innocence before it withdrew itself back into the rings they'd forged for him.

"Oh, thank you," she sighed. "I do love that song! The choir in my church used to sing it every year."

"Mine, too." It was a mainstay of German-speaking countries at Christmas, along with _Stille Nacht _and others that were more about the joy of the holiday, the bells that rang out in celebration announcing the birth of the Christ Child. They would ring the following morning, and he was glad he'd be there to hear them.

"Would you do something else for me?" he asked, knowing that she struggled to carry a conversation.

"Of course," she said.

"Tell me what you see."

"Oh! Oh…well, they just lit the candles on the tree inside. I wish you could see it! I'm sorry, was that insensitive of me?"

This behavior of drove the others insane, but he recognized it for what it was, a deep desire to be useful, with an even greater fear that she wasn't quite up for the task. "No, not at all. I'm glad you're willing to take the time to share it with me."

"Oh!" and he could feel her heart skip again. "You must miss it so much!" she said quietly. "I feel so bad when I think about it."

When he woke up that day ten years before to find his eyes gone, he wished he'd died instead. For a week, he pretended to be worse than he was because he couldn't summon the energy to get out of bed, to learn all over again how to move through the world. Instead, he slept, for twelve, even eighteen hours at a stretch, waking only to eat and use the water closet before going back to bed.

Then one day the constant beep of the monitors invaded his daze, monotonous, shrill, intolerable, and he got up, feeling his way toward the door, matching his memories of Asia Branch to the textures of the walls, surprised to find that he could guess the size of rooms by how the sound traveled. Without the crutch of his sight, he could hear so much more, simply because he was forced to pay attention.

That night, he sent strings down into the floor and played until his fingers bled.

"I've had a long time to get used to it," he said, "and because I wasn't born blind, I can imagine what's around me from people's descriptions."

"Oh!" Miranda said. "Well, what would you like to know about?"

"We had candles on the tree when I was a child, every Christmas eve," he said, "and I used to go outside to look, because of the way they glowed through the frost. Are the windows frosted enough for that?"

"Yes," she said. "The candles look like fireflies, only gold instead of green, and bigger. I'm sorry. That's probably not very clear."

"No," he said. "That's a wonderful description. Are there lamps around the inn?"

"Yes…um…six along this wall. They're all lit, and the snow is falling in front of them. Heavy flakes."

He knew that, but he didn't want her to stop talking. "How deep is the snow now?" he asked.

"Oh. We have…um…about seven or eight centimeters more than when it started, but it's coming down harder. The trees…"

"Yes?"

"The branches are covered with snow. So is the roof. The roof…there are icicles as long as my arm, and they're shining in the lamplight. Oh, Marie, it's so pretty!"

This time, it was his heart that skipped a beat, at the awe and delight in her voice, then guilt swept over him, freezing the impulse to reach for her.

There was a legend in the Order of two Exorcist lovers who died together on the battlefield. It was nowhere in the files, at least not as far as Marie knew, but it had been whispered among the Exorcists themselves as far back as anyone could remember. It was said that the woman died first, and he knew that those last few minutes would have been unending torment for her lover. To see one's beloved fall and be unable to save her, hell would pale by comparison and be no more than he deserved.

Marie heard the story when he first joined, a cautionary tale about how deadly attachments were to the Accommodators. Once they synchronized, their humanity became secondary. The war was more important.

Marie understood this, but even if he hadn't, life in the Order would have squashed any such hopes. The tiny handful of women working there had been fought over so persistently, and often crudely, that they built iron walls between themselves and the men around them. Marie had come to like a few of them, but not enough to take a shot at those walls, which he knew would not come down in any case. Exorcists were generally understood to be very bad romantic bets.

Nor was he like Daisya, who preferred the lack of commitment that came with traveling and liked a lot of flash and giggle. Marie wanted someone he could wake up to, a longing he set aside when he synchronized. First, he would have to live through the war. Then maybe, if there was anything good left in him, he would look for someone gentle and kind, an antidote to the death that surrounded him.

Then Miranda joined, and he found himself behaving like a teenager, making excuses to be where she was, finding reasons to be the one to train her, inserting himself into her life so that when she looked for someone, she'd find him first. He didn't realize what he was doing until it was too late, but it was too late for him from the moment she walked into the cafeteria with Komui and he heard that loving, determined, uncertain heart for the first time. He knew even then that if she died, he would, too, suicide by Demon. He was pretty sure he wouldn't be the first.

"What's it like," Miranda asked, "to see the world with your ears and fingers? If you don't mind me asking, I mean. If you do, please tell me."

"I don't mind," he said, and it wasn't just that he didn't mind, it warmed him to the core that she cared enough to ask. "It took me a while to sort through the sounds, to recognize people's heartbeats and to hear how echoes move when people are in a room. I also had to learn to read Braille, although now that I can, I read faster than I used to."

"With your fingers?" she asked, curiosity taking the edge off her habitual anxiety.

"Yes, although I think I've rubbed all the whorls from my fingerprints," he said.

Miranda giggled. "You should become a thief. You'd hear them coming long before they could catch you, and they'd never find out who you are."

It was an awkward joke, but especially daring for Miranda, who watched every word whether she needed to or not. "I wouldn't know what to steal," he said. "I can't tell the difference between diamonds and paste."

"Oh!" she gasped, and he heard her heart flutter with distress. "I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have said such a thing."

"Miranda," he said. "I can laugh about it, and it's all right for you to laugh, too. I don't like it when people tiptoe around my blindness."

"Oh," she said, quieting. "I suppose that would be difficult, but you're not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?"

"No," he said. "I thought it was funny. It had never occurred to me to take up a life of crime on account of my fingertips."

"I don't know why I thought of it," she said. "It just popped into my head. I don't suppose I could I learn Braille, could I? Can you do that if you can see?"

"Of course you can! It might be difficult at first, but you could learn. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know, I just thought…" Marie heard the rush of her pulse as she blushed. "I thought I'd like to know it feels to read with your fingers."

Who else had ever wanted to know that? Their only interest in his blindness had been how to help him compensate. No one had ever asked to enter his world in this way. "I'll be happy to teach you," he said, aware that it was probably another mistake, but what else could he say? To refuse her would be a rejection, and Miranda didn't handle that well. She would never understand.

"Thank you," she said. "Sometimes when I'm by myself, I close my eyes and try to find my way around the room. I always stumble over something, but I'm so clumsy that I stumble anyway, even with my eyes open."

"I cheat," he said. "I have ears like a bat."

"Like a….oh!" She giggled again. "Of course! Yes, I suppose that's cheating. I…um…" She faltered, her voice going soft and sad.

"What?" he asked.

"I…um, n…never mind, I…it's not important."

He heard the fear in her heartbeat, and if there was one thing he never wanted her to feel when she was with him, it was fear. "Please tell me."

"It's so stupid a…and so selfish."

"Let me judge for myself, all right?"

"B…but maybe you won't like me when you h…hear. I…I'm so foolish, and s…so v…vain and s…silly."

She was in tears, and this time the need to touch her burst through the brittle ice. He reached toward her voice, ran his fingers down her arms, and enclosed her gloved hands in his. "Miranda, you're not foolish or silly, and you're certainly not vain."

"Y…yes I am," she said, hesitating as she sniffed. "I…I wonder if you'd…if you'd still spend time with me if…if you knew what I look like. I…I'm not young anymore, a…and…" She swallowed hard. "I'm not pretty."

He knew what she looked like. His Master had described her to him, a pointed chin, wide eyes, dark brown hair and a full mouth, and she had bones like a bird's, so light that Marie could lift her without any effort at all. "Your voice is beautiful," he said, "and you're very brave. You try so hard to help those you fight with. That's what I see."

"Th…th…thank you," she said, but he could hear that she was not reassured.

"I mean it, Miranda." With all his heart. "I really do."

"B…but…I don't…I should describe myself to you, but I don't want to because I'm such a coward!"

Then before Marie could say anything, Miranda grabbed both his hands and pressed them to her face. He felt his cheeks burn and he was grateful that her eyes were closed as he traced the curve of her forehead, followed the arch of her eyebrows down to the smeary tracks of tears on her cheeks, which he brushed away with his thumbs before running them over her nose and lips. She was far lovelier than his Master had described, those fine cheekbones, that soft mouth, the complicated curves of her ears and the soft, fragrant hair he pushed back from them.

His head filled with possibilities, the slight weight of her body on his, his fingers running through that glorious hair, his nose filled with the deep lemon-spice scent of the Carmelite water she liked. It had been so long, years, and to wake with Miranda in his arms would be the best Christmas gift of his life.

He was already lost, but perhaps if he left it at this, as they were, there might still be some hope for her, that she would survive his death if it came to that.

So he withdrew, let the frost close over him again. "Thank you," he said.

"Um…y…you're welcome." She was flustered, uncertain.

"You were right," he said, "you're not pretty. You're beautiful."

"Oh!" Once again, he heard her blush. "Oh, no! No, you're flattering me!"

"I'm not flattering you. I don't need to. I'm just telling you what I see." To another woman, such a comment would have been flirting, but directed at Miranda, it was reassurance. Even as an Exorcist, where she had abilities no one could match, she still didn't feel like she was good enough.

"Th…thank you," she said, and he heard the relief in her voice. "Thank you. I hate to think that you might be ashamed to be seen with me."

"Never," he said, "and I will never be ashamed to fight alongside you either."

"Thank you, Marie." She sniffed again and there was a rustle of clothing as she wiped her face. "Um…I was thinking…I thought maybe since we're here and we can't go back, I thought I'd go to church in the morning. If it's all right. I don't have to, of course, if I shouldn't, but I just wanted to hear the choir."

It was a plea for normalcy, for a world in which they could spend Christmas morning as they had before they had ever heard of Innocence, _Stollen_ and coffee in a house full of family before they joined the rest of the town in following the bells to the church, to the sanctuary filled with light and evergreen. He thought of his mother, of the old woman she never had a chance to become, still elegant in her fox-trimmed coat, his father perhaps leaning on the cane he had always carried. And his sisters. Surely they were married with children by now! For a brief, miserable moment, he even imagined children of his own, and Miranda's voice scolding them as they got distracted by the excitement and snow.

Marie took a long, quiet breath, focusing on how the cold air ran over his throat, ripping at it like the thorns of a rose. "Of course you can go," he said, grateful that his voice stayed steady. "In fact, if you don't mind, I'll go with you." He tried to tell himself that it was for her protection, in case there were still Demons in town, but he knew that he was giving way inch by inch, and he wondered if it had been the same for that other Exorcist, how long he'd held on before he gave in, reached out, and signed his own death warrant.

"Yes," she said, and he heard her heart settle into a quiet peace. "Yes, thank you."

There was nothing left to say that would be safe for her to hear, so Marie rose and offered her his arm. "Shall we go in then?"

"Yes." Her hand settled into place just below his elbow, and together they walked back to the inn.

* * *

_Lo, how a rose e'er blooming,  
From tender stem hath sprung._

_ -Ein Ros Entsprungen, _16th century German hymn, translation by Theodore Baker, 1894


End file.
